Dualism takes two
by Fortyfive stars
Summary: Postwar. Hermione and Draco are both junior healers at St. Mungo's and slowly begin to heal the wounds the war left behind and the rift between them. HD, hurtcomfort, friendship, love.
1. Force no spells can mend

**Disclamer**: Legally this does nothing, but I still don't own anything. I'm just playing a little.  
**A/N**: I've planned this to be part of a series about them, but short chapters only because I  
can't seem to commit myself to longer things. (Incidentally I am still working on 'Dashing through  
the snow' and other stuff.) I think it will eventually become D/H romance, but for now I'll settle for  
making it D/H friendship fics, because I think those can be nice too, and interesting. As for the  
Harry/Hermione/Ron reference that is all up to you to decide. It can be interpreted as them three  
being a couple together, or simply as very deep ties of friendship between the three of them.

I would like to extend a deep and profound thank you to those who have reviewed - you have  
no idea how happy you make me. Extra special cookie thanks to **requim17**, **soofija** and **kayceejay-1**  
for, albeit unknowingly, reviving my decision to write with their reviews. (I am unsure of whether  
kayceejay-1 will read this, but just in case.) Now, onwards, my brave lads and lasses!

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**Force no spells can mend**

Hermione slunk into the changing room, grateful of the emptiness that greeted her, and sank down  
onto the bench at the very back of the room, hidden behind the last line of lockers. She retained a  
straight posture during the few seconds it took for her to get lost in thoughts, then she simply slumped  
forward with all the natural elegance of a haysack. She stared blankly at the yellow wall in front of her  
and sucked a tangled curl of hair into her mouth. It tickled against her gums, tears were gliding freely,  
though unbeknownst to her, down her cheeks, _like fast cars on winter roads, slipping, sliding, out of  
control, spinning away into each other, tearing metal and flesh with force no spells could mend._

The thought of it was too horrifying, too close to what she had just experienced, for her to wrap her  
mind around it. Healers –even those in training, no, especially those in training- at St. Mungo's should  
be less sensitive, should be able to take it, she remembered thinking. Otherwise they shouldn't be  
there at all. Then she fell forward down onto all fours on the floor and threw up until there was nothing  
left but bitter bile that burned at the back of her throat.

Huddled over her own mess she continued to hack and cough, shivers traversing her body as she  
cried and did nothing to wipe away the snot running from her nose or the vomit on her lips. And  
suddenly someone was carressing her back soothingly and coaxing her onto her feet into a warm  
embrace as she hiccuped. Concerned bluegrey eyes met hers briefly before she tipped her head  
forward and hid inside a cave of her own hair. She heard a soft "Scourgify" before Draco sat down on  
the bench and simply drew her onto his lap where she curled up like a large child. She felt him sigh  
and rest his head on her shoulder as she did on his, staining his work robes.

They sat like that for a very long time and at one point Hermione thought Draco even dozed off but if  
he did then she wouldn't begrudge him those few moments of rest. He had been through a rough night  
just like her, and having his arms around her, feeling the friendly warmth, was more comforting than  
anything else he could have said or done. Eventually she pulled back slightly to stare at him with red-rimmed  
disoriented eyes that shimmered with despair and they just looked at each other.

Draco stroked her temple with one finger and then brought it up before her eyes – it was smeared with  
blood. After a long breathless period she forced herself to speak. Her tongue felt like lead but she  
owed him reassurance, but it was still an almost herculian task to make her lips move, her mouth form  
words and push them out.

"Not mine," she said in a voice that cracked and then drew a deep, long sigh. Hermione suddenly  
became aware of her stomach muscles aching, the absolute down-to-the-bone weariness of her body  
now that there were no tears left and the pleasant circular motions of Draco's fingers kneading the  
small of her back.

After looking at her for a few more moments he nodded curtly, satisfied that she was better, and gently  
eased her down next to him.

"Hey. You okay?"

She looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, and then she nodded. She read the weariness in  
every line of his body, in every gesture he made, and couldn't help but wonder why he took the time  
and effort to comfort her. It wasn't as if they were friends, they were only going through their  
apprentice time together. He was also one year ahead of her –she had needed rest to recover from  
the war and for a very long time she had done nothing but laze around with Harry in pajamas all day or  
escort Ron on one of his restless walks outside of the country house where they had holed up- and  
they only saw each other sometimes in the hallways or during medical procedures.

The only thing they really had in common except for the big general stuff like Hogwarts and the war,  
she reflected, was that neither of them had very many friends even though her fame and his money  
would always ensure they didn't have to sit alone and eat. God, she missed Harry and Ron right now  
and she swallowed tightly at the thought of just apparating home to the apartment and crawling into  
their sleepy embrace.

Then she squashed curiosity and longing; there was no point in expanding energy over the first and as  
soon as she had reported she could achieve the second.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." And she was.

He shrugged and walked towards the door.

"Hey Malfoy," she called, meaning to thank him and he stopped to look at her over his shoulder.

"It's my job. I'm a healer, okay? I can't stand by and just watch while people are in pain."

"Huh?"

"That's what you wanted to ask, right? Why? Well, that's why. I've got to interfere and try to help, or I  
go mad."

"I just wanted to say thank you." He shrugged again, as if her thanks was neither here nor there  
and she frowned.

"Don't say pointless things like that, just go home. That's what I'm gonna do. Oh, and Granger – don't  
think this means you can talk to me in public."

He walked out the door wearing a wan but genuine smile on his lips and his sports bag hazardly slung  
over one shoulder as Hermione shouted profanities after him.


	2. A pocketful of change

**A pocketful of change**

After their latest encounter in the changing room Hermione rarely saw Draco for a period of about a  
month. They were frequently on different shifts or saw each other only through the crack between  
closing elevator doors or as a busy figure rushing past. And although Hermione hadn't spent much  
time reflecting on what sort of relation they had to each other besides co-workers she felt that their  
positions were uneven.

Draco had been kind to her in a hard, tricky moment, and now she was in his debt. Anything else that  
she thought and felt about him –curiosity, memories of past repulsion, a minor interest in exploring his  
character traits and motives- was just an added bonus.

Then, finally, the occasion when she could even the score arrived. It was late february and the roads  
were a gruellike concoction of slush, mud and gritty little stones that somehow got into everybody's  
homes in some mysterious way, and the hospital wasn't an exception. Hermione scrubbed the soles of  
her shoes clean best as she could at the entrance and trotted off towards the locker rooms. On the  
way her eye was caught by a glimpse of a familiar profile staring intently at a coffee slotmachine, and  
she resolutely made her way over there.

"Good afternoon," she said brightly and Draco just nodded without turning his head, continuing to stare  
while he fumbled in his pockets for some coin.

"Haven't got any coin?" Hermione said after an awkward quiet moment had passed and it became  
clear that conversation from Draco was not forthcoming. "I can give you some, if you want."

"Don't trouble yourself, I wouldn't want to be owing you." He said evenly.

"It's not a problem," she said and patted her coat pocket. "I've got a pocketful of change to share."

"So go share with someone else. I told you not to talk to me in public, didn't I?"

"Sod it. You know what, Malfoy, just take it. Go on. Take it." Hermione said, and thrust her open palm  
out to him. He glanced down at the gleaming coins lining the folds of her hand, the jumble of sickles  
and knuts, and couldn't manage to repress a sneer. His lips curled with contempt.

"Don't give half of your fortune to me, Granger – if you do, there will be nothing left for you to support  
Weasley on."

Hermione stiffened. "Sorry?"

"Look, I don't want your money. I don't need charity, and especially not from you."

She frowned. "It's not charity, it's… I'm just trying to even the score, you bastard. So… just take them  
and do, you know, whatever you want with them." She jingled the coins and he took a step back, turning on her.

"Are you always this stupid or are you making a special effort today?" he snarled. "I don't _want_ the  
money, and you don't owe me anything either, if owing me makes you think you have to try and even  
the score. Don't you get it? I didn't comfort you because it was you – I'd have done it for anyone. I  
don't want social contact with you, I'm not trying to make friends. We-" he gestured wildly between the  
two of them, "Will never be friends. Ever. So just… keep your dirty money. I wouldn't want to touch it  
even with a long stick."

"Dirty? Because I'm a muggleborn, is that it?"

"Of course. And you're such a typical mudblood, too." He glanced at her dismissively, and then turned  
away. "Brown is the color of mud, after all."

Draco walked away down the corridor and Hermione stood still, frozen in place, and watched him  
leave. Maybe the war changed you, but it obviously didn't change everything. She'd been a right royal  
idiot to think that he would ever accept money from her, even if it was just some change for coffee.

She looked down at her hand clenched around the sickles, at the blue veins just barely visible under  
the skin, at the fingernails and pink skin. She wondered, as countless times before, what the difference  
between their hands was, and when she would ever be able to escape that difference.

* * *

**Not my most inspired chapter, I admit.**


End file.
